


Everything Old is New Again

by rinnwrites



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Day At The Beach, Dorm bed shenanigans, Enemies to Lovers, Fluff, Getting Together, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, M/M, Magical Theory (Harry Potter), Post-War, Smut, class partners
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:07:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25978711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rinnwrites/pseuds/rinnwrites
Summary: A year after the war, Draco leaves England with a simple plan: Find a place where no one knows him, get his potions mastery, start a new life. He didn’t count on an obviously exhausted and shockingly studious Harry Potter showing up in his very first class.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 33
Kudos: 468
Collections: Very Drarry Summer Vibes 2020





	Everything Old is New Again

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ahhhnorealnamesallowed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahhhnorealnamesallowed/gifts).



> This is...not at all what I set out to write, but I hope very much that I’ve worked in enough of Billie’s Drarry Summer Vibez prompts and tags to make it enjoyable for her!! Billie, I’ve not had the pleasure of interacting much with you on the server, but you seem a) super lovely and b) into the same types of drarry stuff I am, so yay for that! I hope that you enjoy my humble gift to you <3 <3
> 
> Also, all the thanks to Shravani/Eletriptan for being a delightful beta and ensuring that this work was more than just one massive run-on sentence. 
> 
> NOTE: There’s a couple tags that I’ve left out just for mild spoilery reasons, and I don’t anticipate them being triggery, BUT for safety, see the end note for additional tags if you wanna know exactly what you’re getting into - please take care of yourself!

The stormy sky is not a good omen on this, his first day of university classes. Didn’t he elect to attend school on the balmy coast of Spain because the weather was supposed to improve his mood? No dreary English summer for him, not this year. 

Draco wants sunshine he can stretch out and nap in, like a cat, warm and dry and...well at least he’ll be too busy in class today to really notice the weather. It’ll clear up. Perhaps by the weekend he can visit the beach, explore the town further. 

The world is his oyster. Or...the little town of Puerto Paz is his oyster. The population here is an interesting mix of magic and muggle - the university itself even offers classes for muggle students - with rows of shops and strips of beach wrapped in protective enchantments to keep the muggles away, and a handful of muggle bars and restaurants that happily cater to the magically inclined as well. 

Magic and Muggle society coexisting peacefully. Draco’s father would roll over in his grave. 

Perhaps that’s why Draco likes it so much here. It’s a place that all of the greatest influencers in his life would have thought to be...inadvisable, to put it politely. 

It feels like a nice little ‘fuck you’ to Draco’s murky history to stroll down the street, past a muggle girl with her eyes trained on her...cell phone? And think nothing of it as she turns the corner and he strides through the doors of the university, ducking away from the coming storm and into his brand new life.

Okay, that’s a little dramatic. But Draco is intent on things being different from here on out. This is a fresh start for him, the war is behind him and Hogwarts is too, there’s no one left to tell him what to do, to believe, to strive for. He refuses to allow that to be a bad thing. 

Everything old is new again. Or something like that. 

Draco steps into his assigned classroom and feels simultaneously like the adult that he is and the 11-year-old boy that once walked through the doors of the Hogwarts Express for the first time. He’s not sure what to make of it. 

The room has seating for about twenty, the chairs are nearly full, and he only gives himself a few moments to size up his classmates - a handful of people he’ll get to know quite well, he assumes - before he swans down the rows of desks to claim one of very few open seats. It’s near the middle of the room, and next to a rather scruffy looking dark-haired man.

Draco sets his bag neatly on the floor and turns to greet his new classmate, stopping short as wide green eyes mimic the surprise in his own. 

Of course, it’s Harry fucking Potter. 

His glasses are gone, and a certain tension is missing from his shoulders, but it’s him alright. Dark curls spill over his face, covering the fractals of scarring that span from his hairline to the outer corner of one eye...an eye that is weighed down by bags and dark circles. He looks _exhausted_.

“Malfoy?” Comes Potter’s incredulous voice.

Draco’s sneer is half-hearted at best, battling a foreign sense of concern that rises in his chest, but he shrugs, “Or just a boggart come to haunt you.” 

A spark of amusement dances across Potter’s face but Draco has no time to be annoyed before- 

“What the hell are you doing here?”

He hopes Potter can _hear_ his eyes rolling, “Attending class, obviously.”

Their exchange is cut short as a stern looking woman strides to the front of the room, garnering the attention of the class with her presence alone. She reminds Draco of McGonagall, even with her brown skin and closely cropped black curls.

Professor Marsh, as she introduces herself, wastes no time in beginning their course as she launches into their first lecture on complex magical interactions in rapid Spanish.

Draco is distracted from any confusion over the Boy-Who-Is-Somehow-Still-Alive by the notes he begins furiously scribbling onto parchment.

* * *

  
It’s Draco’s intention to corner Potter for an interrogation as soon as class is over, but the slippery bastard is out the door with only a glance and an infuriatingly casual wave in Draco’s direction. 

What the fuck. 

He doesn’t see Potter for the rest of the day. 

Draco’s other classes are more specific to his course of study, his mastery in Potions. 

Potter isn’t following the same path. Obviously. That would be laughable. Not that Draco paid him all _that_ much attention in school, but with the exception of bloody Slughorn’s year, he was quite sure that the Savior hadn’t scored higher than Troll on a single Potions assignment. 

But Potions or no, Potter is _here,_ taking courses on advanced magical theory. 

He’d never struck Draco as the scholarly type. Peculiar. 

Much as he’s loath to allow Potter to continue to feature in his thoughts, Draco’s unable to stop wondering about it for the majority of the afternoon and into the evening. 

He strolls along the street as the sun sets, a riot of colour in a now clear sky. There’s a bonfire on the wizarding beach closest to campus, a welcome from the University for the newest students. 

Draco absolutely doesn’t speed up at the idea that Potter may be there with answers to why he’s turned up here, of all places.

Because he doesn’t care why Potter is here. 

He cares that this is supposed to be his escape. 

Escape from years of his life spiralling out of his control, the war that changed everything, the trials where his parents, his only family, slipped through his fingers. From his father’s quick death in Azkaban to his mother’s slow descent into depression, caged in a home that leeched joy from her soul more than any dementor ever could. From the fact that his own miraculous freedom was bought by Potter’s own words of defense…

This is supposed to be his chance to leave everything behind for something new. 

But the past has followed him in the form of a very quiet, very exhausted, Harry James Potter. The boy who...has some explaining to do. 

Of course, when Draco arrives on the beach, the flames of the bonfire roar and dance in a way that makes his skin crawl with memories he’s trying to suppress, and while witches and wizards mill about in the sand, chattering in this language and that, none of them are the one he’s looking for.

In an effort to shake off his annoyance, Draco joins the fray anyway. He finds that his classmates are tolerable. He even meets a few that live in the same university housing that he does. This is good. Making friends, being amicable. 

That’s part of the new Draco Malfoy. 

Without the baggage of his reputation looming over him, it’s easy. 

If only he could stop thinking of that damned Potter. 

* * *

Advanced Magical Interactions comes around again on Monday, and it begins much like the first time. The seat beside Potter is empty, and Draco takes it. 

Potter’s head is buried in a book, and strange as it is, Draco takes a moment to stare. He really doesn’t look any more rested than he had a week ago - and he certainly didn’t spend the weekend out with their fellow students...it’s a small town, Draco would have seen him. 

Eyes narrowed, Draco turns his attention to the book that Potter is studying so closely, realizing quickly that it’s a tutorial in Spanish. The snort is out of him before he can stop it, and that’s when Potter seems to notice that he’s there at all. 

“Can I help you, Malfoy?”

Draco is quiet for a moment, weighing his response. His curiosity and a mild scornfulness get the better of him. “Are you _learning Spanish_ , Potter?”

Black eyebrows furrow in confusion and Potter looks up at him with a ‘duh’ in his face. “It’s a bit critical to understanding the classes, isn’t it?” he sighs, “Let me guess, your lessons in how to be a posh pureblood wanker included every language in Europe, did they?”

Draco snorts again, “I don’t speak a word of Spanish,” he states, feeling the amusement stretch his features, “well, that’s not strictly true, I know a few phrases.”

Potter is even more confused now, and Draco decides to be kind and merciful, so he shrugs, adding, “I did, however, learn the _lingua_ charm in...second year?”

“The what?!” Potter looks 20% eager and 80% annoyed. Draco laughs and it’s only 20% mocking...okay, 30%.

Rolling his eyes, he swishes his wand dramatically, “ _l_ _ingua_.” A cool blue stream of magic pours from Draco’s wand into both of Potter’s ears, and the saviour scrunches his nose in momentary discomfort. “Get over it, Potter, you’ll thank me in a moment.”

Professor Marsh makes her grand entrance at exactly the right moment, announcing that she’ll be assigning their first major project today. She’s speaking in rapid Spanish, but what Draco hears is English with an accent distinct to the translation magic in his ears. Potter is hearing the same, if the way his jaw has dropped open minutely is any indication.

“I fucking love magic,” comes his awed whisper.

Draco can’t help the amused snort, which earns him a sharp glare from Marsh.

It’s worth it. 

Class proceeds with the rest of last week’s lecture on types of magic, each of which they’ll explore further as the term moves along. Draco furiously scribbles notes, and he notices that today, Potter is too. He likes to think he can take credit for seriously saving Potter’s education.

Finally, Marsh brings up their project again, explaining that it will be a study on magical cores.

“The most primal and primary magical interactions are those that take place within a magic user’s _core._ All magical beings are born with a neutral core. There are extreme exceptions to this, of course; for example, someone conceived under the influence of a love potion is likely to be born with a darker core. In contrast, a magic user that is Nephilim has traces of angelic magic that may predispose them to the light. We see these very little as a society, so you are to base your studies in the theory of neutral origin.” 

Marsh crosses to her desk to pick up a parchment, continuing to speak as she walks, “As we learn and practice magic, our cores become conditioned. Imagine each spell we cast as a single drop into a bucket of clean water, a dark spell is a drop of blood, a light spell a drop of milk, each shifts the core, in essence, _the soul_ , only a shade in one direction or another. They are not opposites so much as they are just, _different_.”

A young woman in the front row raises her hand and speaks in Korean that quickly shifts to English in Draco’s ears, “What about other types of magic? Do they change our cores?”

Marsh nods and almost smiles, looking as pleased as Draco has seen her in their short acquaintance, “A very good question, and a good stepping off point for your projects. In pairs, you will research the different kinds of magic that affect a magical core, and prepare an essay on the potency of each. Then, you will examine your own cores, and determine what magic exactly lives within you.” 

She begins to read the pairings for what is apparently a partnered project, and Draco finds his throat quite dry at the idea of examining his own soul. Sure, he’s trying to change things, but he doesn’t think it’s all sunshine and daisies in there. He certainly doesn’t need a stranger rooting around in a place as personal as his core. 

Of course, he doesn’t need to worry about that, does he?

No. No strangers peering into his soul. 

Only his worst fucking enemy. Or former enemy. He isn’t strictly sure where they stand, but some part of him knows what will happen before Marsh even gets the words out. 

“Mister Malfoy, you’ll be paired with Mister Potter.”

* * *

Draco grudgingly makes plans to meet with Potter on the weekend. The bloody prat insisted that evenings didn’t suit his schedule. 

Bollocks of course, the uni doesn’t offer courses past six. Well, other than midnight astronomy and divination seminars, but Potter doesn’t seem the type to seek further education in those topics. 

Then again, Draco wouldn’t have said Potter was the type to see further education at all before being accosted by the presence of him in what should have been a safe space. 

Anyway, Draco is certain there’s something else going on. What evening obligations could someone like Potter have in a place like this? Some people must recognize him, surely, but if the students in their class are any example, the hype over the saviour here is lukewarm at best, at least in comparison to wizarding Britain. 

Certainly Potter doesn’t travel back to London each night, does he? That amount of international travel can’t be healthy...even if Potter _does_ have the sway to have a personal portkey to London and back. 

Draco makes a mental note to research the long term effects of portkey travel on the body...later, after this blasted meeting is done. 

He finds Potter already waiting in the university library, which is as opposite to the Hogwarts library as anything Draco could imagine. It’s spacious, modern, full of square tables surrounded by chairs on casters with seat cushions of bright blue, green, and orange, and despite the wall of glass illuminating the space, there’s not a fleck of dust in the air to be seen. 

There are students sprinkled here and there at the tables, and what looks like a small coffee bar in the far corner. Rows and rows of books line the walls, and most of them actually appear to have been bound this century. But the biggest difference, of course, is the chatter. Students speak amongst themselves, debating their subject of study or laughing at the antics of their friends. 

Pince would have had a stroke if her students behaved like this. 

Draco quite likes it. 

He strolls over to the table where Potter is slouched over a text, his feet flat on the floor, his nervous energy only showing itself in the way he rolls the wheels of his shockingly orange chair back a few centimetres then forward again, all without breaking his concentration on his reading. 

“You look like shite.” He says, by way of announcing himself. Potter’s answering glare makes a childish pride flare in his chest. “You didn’t take the weekend to sleep in, I see.” He adds, settling into the surprisingly comfortable blue chair across from Potter and blatantly staring at the dark circles that linger under Potter’s eyes. 

He’s expecting a snappy retort, something witty he can work with when Potter looks at him as though he’s said nothing and asks, “Did you know about fairy magic?”

There’s a foreign childlike interest in Potter’s eyes and Draco gives his best incredulous look, “Of course I do.” What kind of question was that? Then, “...have you never heard a fairy tale?”

“What, like Cinderella _,_ or uh, Snow White?”

“What? Cinder- What? No. Like The Sidhe Knights of Beltane, or Fae of Darkness.”

Potter looks at him blankly, head tilted to the side in a curious and definitely _not_ endearing way. Draco sighs. 

“Muggle fairytales are usually stories about princes and princesses and true love and happy endings and all that,” Potter explains carefully, and Draco registers that he is truly trying to avoid an argument. How annoying. 

“That’s ridiculous. The fae have nothing to do with love.” He states, eyes narrowed. He could say something about muggles and their ridiculous blindness to the truths of the world, but he refrains. Which is something, for him. “Magic fairy tales are more like...cautionary tales. Embellished true stories from Merlin’s time when the fae were less reclusive and more...prone to havoc. They’re to teach little witches and wizards not to mess about with fairies. That they aren’t to be trusted. Their magic is strange and overpowering.”

“It’s dark.” 

Draco nods slowly, “it...leans that way.”

Potter nods too, then goes back to his reading, as though their entire exchange hadn’t happened. 

Not entirely sure what to make of it, Draco pulls a parchment out of his bag and summons a couple of books down from the shelves. “You’ve got a hand on fae magic, then. If you take elf magic too, I’ll work on alchemic and astrological. We can figure out the big ones later.”

“Light, dark, earth, and love.” Potter looks up for confirmation, and Draco is oddly satisfied by how simple it is to take the lead with him. Had he expected a power struggle? He isn’t sure. He nods, and watches raven hair fall back over green eyes as Potter’s attention returns again to his reading. He stares for a moment, then another, then he opens his book on fundamentals of alchemy and slips into his own world. 

He’s hardly noticed the time passing when Potter jumps up at 5:30 on the dot and announces that he has to go, he has an obligation. 

“Ah yes, the elusive evening plans. Wouldn’t want you to keep your fans waiting, or whatever it is.”

The look Potter gives him is almost amused, and then he’s gone, turned on his heel and out the library door. 

Draco finds himself wondering if Potter was always so quiet.   
  


* * *

They work up to a routine, spending Saturdays in the library mining the texts there for data and information, occasionally trading comments on the content of their notes, all shuffling paper and nearly companionable silence until Potter suddenly has to leave at 5:30 each day for what Draco assumes is the same mysterious obligation. They build up a repository that is more than enough to begin executing their essays on each type of magic and the way it affects a human core. 

It’s Draco who decides they’ve gleaned as much from the library as they can and demands- no, not demands, _strongly suggests_ that they find a change of scenery. 

That is what brings them to the beach this Saturday, Draco sprawled on his stomach on a towel, trying to make sense of Potter’s very tiny scrawl in between pondering the possibility of _baking_ the Malfoy paleness out of his skin with enough time in the sunshine. 

They’ve found a spot just within the privacy spells of the wizarding beach, and there are surprisingly few people about for mid-afternoon. The sun beats down, hot, from a cloudless sky and the ocean pulses steadily against the shore, calm, sparkling, and blue. Draco thinks he might abandon his towel for the water at some point before the day is out. It’s quite superior to being cooped up inside all day. 

Potter doesn’t seem to mind it either, after getting over his apparent surprise at Draco’s suggestion. He’d arrived with a towel of his own, in swim trunks and a “t-shirt” for what Draco guesses to be some muggle band, and had easily taken Draco’s stack of notes when the blonde suggested that they read up on each other’s findings. 

Now he’s sat with his legs crossed in front of him, wearing a ridiculous hat - the muggle kind with the plastic snaps on the back - over his unruly hair, and his eyes are carefully trained on Draco’s meticulous penmanship. He’d look utterly muggle, were it not for the parchment in his hands and the wand at his side, (it’s still out from the sun protection charm he’d wordlessly cast over their heads, muttering something about _cancer._ Draco didn’t point out that wizards don’t get cancer.) and Draco finds it difficult to stop looking at him, for some reason. Maybe because even Potter is easier to read than his handwriting, or because it’s foreign to see unprotected green eyes drag across a page with such interest, or maybe because a droplet of sweat rolls from just behind his ear down his neck, leaving an easily traceable path down dark skin pulled taut over tendons that flex as he swallows. 

“How is earth magic dark and light at the same time?” Draco nearly jumps at the sound of Potter’s voice and has to drag his eyes from the man’s throat to his eyes, which don’t hold the slightest hint of accusation, they’re just earnest and interested, like they always seem to be these days. 

After a beat to compose himself, Draco shakes his head, “It isn’t. It’s neutral.”

Potter’s nose scrunches as he looks back to the notes, “ _Earth magic lends itself to both the light and the dark,”_ he quotes, “doesn’t that mean it’s both?”

“No. Earth magic is more of…a source, a base for other magic. Like...you know the standard potion base, it gives substance to a brew but doesn’t have any interaction with the other ingredients.” Potter nods as though in understanding, and Draco continues, “The earth is older than dark and light. It’s the standard base for almost all magic we know. It’s the other influences we pull into it, the ways we and other magical creatures twist it that make the light and dark. It’s the source of our cores, but also the source of many of the spells we cast, that’s why our wands-”

“Our wands are made from products of the earth, wood and animals, they’re only conduits, but their makeup helps us to channel the earth alongside our own core!”

Despite being cut off, Draco can’t help smiling in the face of Potter’s excitement, “Yes, exactly.” 

“And the way in which we manipulate the magic we draw from the earth determines its affiliation, to light or to dark?” Potter is scanning the notes again, but Draco nods. 

“Commonly used spells are just earth magic shaped and formed for a specific purpose, honed and repeated across centuries for the benefit...or sometimes the detriment of our kind.” 

“Like evolution.”

“Like what?”

Potter laughs and it’s musical and happy, “nevermind.”

“I never expected to see you so excited to learn.” The words are out before Draco can catch them, or vet them for the pure idiocy they are. 

Of course, if Potter is bothered, he doesn’t show it. “I enjoy learning, actually. I’m no Hermione but…” he shrugs, looking out to the ocean with a hint of melancholy before looking back to Draco, green eyes still alight with excitement. 

Draco shrugs, “At school, you painted a different picture.”

There’s only a flash of darkness in green eyes at that before Potter shrugs, “I was a bit occupied, wasn’t I?” he’s lost in his own thoughts for a moment before looking thoughtfully at Draco, “After everything was over...I wished more than anything I could go back to eleven and try it again, but as a normal kid. I missed out on a lot of things.”

Draco has pulled himself up off the towel now, risen to his knees and rested back on his heels. He nods in agreement, “I wanted that too. Do it over but with different…influences. Make better choices.” He doesn’t know where his candour is coming from, but it’s surprisingly easy to share. He watches Potter’s eyes drift down to his bare chest, surely looking for scars that have long since healed. Neither of them mentions it. 

“That’s why I enrolled in university.” Potter breaks the silence, his eyes back on Draco’s, “The chance to just...learn. I went from a shitty muggle childhood to a magical war and somewhere in the middle I was supposed to figure out how to live in a whole different world. I wanted to learn about magic in peace, without all of the...distractions.”

It’s only after Draco stares at him for a long moment that Potter _flushes_ as if realizing who he’s speaking to and shakes his head, “Sorry, it’s been a while since I’ve been around anyone who...

 _Who gets it?_ Draco doesn’t understand Potter’s position exactly, but by all accounts, while they knew about the war here, it was something distant, foreign, something that happened somewhere else. That was the draw of it for Draco, no one to know his face or his name and judge him before he had a chance to change their minds. 

“It’s alright. I...me too.” Draco admits, looking out to sea rather than at Potter’s face. “I came here to be away from all of that. To be normal, for a fresh start. After my parents....” he trails off, still gazing at the sparkling water. He doesn't need to explain, Potter surely knows how his father was killed in Azkaban, how a fellow disciple of the Dark Lord had taken out his anger about Lucius’s short sentence with his own bare hands, how Draco’s mother had faded away from a broken heart. 

“It makes sense to look to the future.” The words are sure and comforting, and Draco doesn’t know which one of them they’re for, but he appreciates Potter for saying them either way. He picks up Potter’s notes and sets back to reading, conjuring up a quill to make an additional note here and there. 

He can feel Potter’s eyes on him for a long time before he follows suit and they lapse into a busy silence once again. 

They keep on like that until as usual, Potter stands to leave right at 5:30, the sun only just beginning to droop in the sky. 

Draco bids him farewell and sets the notes aside, thinking a swim will clear his mind. 

* * *

Monday brings the most interesting lesson they’ve had in Marsh’s class. She shows them - with herself as the example - how to create a projection of a magical core, and spends the rest of the class teaching them to dissect the different colours, their placement and what they mean. They’re surprised - or Draco is, at least - to see the vast section of deep blue pooled at the base of her core, indicating her extensive practice in alchemy, borderline dark magic. The rest of it is essentially light and neutral, silvery-white dotted with gold, red, green. 

It makes him all the more nervous to see his own, to have Potter draw this projection from him, and analyse the particles of his soul. 

When class draws to a close, Draco carefully suggests that this more sensitive part of their project be completed in private. At least he can shield himself from prying eyes, unlike in the library or at the beach, even if there’s no stopping Potter from a free peek at his truest self. 

Surprisingly - or maybe it isn’t surprising at all - Potter quickly agrees, and they plan to meet at their usual time on the weekend, but in Draco’s dormitory instead. 

Draco spends the week ruminating on it, wondering if he should try the projection spell on himself beforehand, to at least know what he’ll be exposing to Potter before the inevitable moment of no return. 

He doesn’t, though. Whether he’s too afraid to examine himself so closely, or just to do it alone, he’s not sure, but either way, his core remains unseen by the time he opens the door to allow Potter into his sanctum a short five days later. 

Sanctum, of course, is a loose term. Draco’s university housing is small and plain, but he can’t complain too much. He has a small kitchen area, a dining table that can fit two almost comfortably, and a bed with his trunk at the end and a wardrobe to one side. It reminds him the slightest bit of his wedge of the Slytherin boys’ dormitory, but not enough to be painful. 

Potter makes the space feel smaller than it is, but he’s always been larger than life. Even Draco can admit that. 

Potter looks around curiously for a moment, then drops his bag by the leg of the dining table and pulls out one of the two chairs, settling himself down. The bags and circles under his eyes look even worse than usual, and Draco wonders if he’s slept this week at all. Maybe he’s been as nervous about this section of the assignment as Draco has. There’s something reassuring about the idea that Draco isn’t alone in the nearly crippling anxiety that such self-scrutiny brings him. 

“Are you alright?” He’s asking before he can plan on it. 

Potter looks up at him and shrugs, “Just tired. Been a long week.” 

Draco nods slowly, moving to sit across the table from Potter. He’s drawn the curtains, since the summer sun seems to hardly set at all these days, and this particular magic works better in the dark, but Potter’s green eyes still seem to shine from his otherwise exhausted countenance. 

“Right, well, we can get this over with, then.” He says flatly, doing his best to conceal how he very much does not want to get it over with, simply because he’d rather not do it at all. Of course, he’s not going to fail the assignment, so he has to make himself participate despite the way his chest tightens, as though his ribs are curling protectively around his core. 

Potter seems to register this despite Draco’s efforts and gazes at him with a soft concern, “Would you like to go first or shall I?”

Draco ponders this for a moment, pushing his embarrassment at being caught in his discomfort aside to consider. He might as well get it over with. The pure gold of Potter’s core will be too hard to follow. 

“Go on then, do it.” He draws his arms out to the sides, feeling very vulnerable as he presents his chest, adorned with a very light grey jumper, to Potter who, to his credit, doesn’t sit around gawking, but hastens to draw his wand and cast.

“ _Animam quaerere_.” The words are near a whisper and Draco doesn’t see any magic leave Potter’s wand, but he _feels_ it stirring up his core, and fights the instinct to ward it off. Potter directs his wand from Draco’s chest to the nearby wall, and pinpricks of light begin to appear, until the shape of his core takes form. The closest thing Draco can think to associate it with is a harp, the way it waves across the top and tapers down to a point, the base, where a wizard’s most prominent affiliation lives. He’s surprised to see that his is silvery-white, neutral.

Upon further inspection, _most_ of his core is neutral, save for a splotch of green near the bottom, a cluster of dark magic that he knows in an instant is tied to the whole ordeal with Dumbledore. He shutters. There are other pinpricks of green here and there, mostly halfway between top and bottom, spells he used a scant number of times that have coloured his core sheerly for the effect they had on his life, though none as close to the base, the root of his magic as those from 6th year. There’s also, to his great surprise, _gold_. Light magic freckled across his core, from top to bottom, though more towards the top, a nod to his fresh start, he’d like to think. The top of the core is like short term memory, recent occurrences that have potential to either flicker out or grow roots and mingle with the base of one’s core. 

It’s all _fascinating_ , and not nearly as horrifying to see as Draco expected. 

He partially retracts that thought, however, as he turns to see Potter hastily jotting down notes, just barely making out the words “dark” and “conditioned” and “turning-point.” The reality that so much of him can be seen by someone else, by this specific someone else comes crashing back and he feels cold. He carefully watches Potter’s face for some sort of emotion, but sees only an academic focus there. He’s not sure if Potter’s hiding his emotions on purpose, but the man’s not been known to be subtle in the past…

“Is it different from what you expected?” The question is reasonable, though Draco hadn’t expected it. He opens and closes his mouth once or twice before sighing and shaking his head.

“I guess not? Or maybe...I thought the dark would be more. I didn’t expect so much…”

“So much light?” The question isn’t really a question. It’s a refrain, one that makes Draco think that somehow Potter _did_ expect exactly what he’s seeing. Is Draco so transparent? There’s something of a smile on Potter’s face, but then it falls to curiosity and he leans in, getting a better look at the top of Draco’s core, “What’s this blue?”

Draco raises an eyebrow but moves forward to where the projection on the wall is just beginning to ripple and fade away. He sees that there are a few dots of blue near the very edge, “Alchemy.” he says with a soft wonder, “My mastery classes for potions have dabbled just a little…” 

Potter makes a noise of interest and jots down another note. Draco turns back to look at him as the projection fades entirely, leaving them back in the relative darkness of Draco’s rooms. 

“So, what have you learned?” he asks lightly, nodding his head to Potter’s notes as he retakes his seat. 

“Your core is dark, but only barely. It’s on the cusp of a transition, like it’s lightening by the day.” Potter looks pleased to announce this, and Draco can’t say he’s not pleased to hear it. It’s better than he could have hoped for. Perhaps living in the depths of the darkness didn’t leech as much nefarious magic into him as he’d thought. 

“A fresh start.” He says quietly, not intending for Potter to hear, but his companion nods, and he wills his cheeks not to flush pink. “Your turn then, let’s see what a saviour’s core looks like.”

Potter frowns minutely, but pushes himself back from the table and extends his arms as Draco had, reversing their positions as Draco casts the spell. 

When he directs the impression of Potter’s magic to the wall, what Draco expects to see is gold, gold and more gold, but he’s surprised to see something entirely different. 

The gold is there, vast spatterings of it throughout, from the base to the top, and the same silver-white of Draco’s forms the background, but what is surprising is the riot of colour in the very base of Potter’s core. 

There’s red, a coil of it branching up and out like a tree, intermingled with green, as though they’ve spent Potter’s entire life in a dance for control. Darkness and love, Draco realizes, his eyes widening as he wonders what kind of magic has so steeped Potter’s soul in both darkness and love.

“It’s him, and my mother,” Potter answers the question Draco didn’t dare to actually ask, and Draco remains quiet, wondering if he’ll continue. 

He’s at the wall, an ink-stained finger tracing a line of red, “She died to save me, it’s ancient magic, but it was there...all along, fighting him. He was there too, powerful, but helpless against her love.” 

He isn’t talking to Draco so much as himself, and Draco feels like an intruder as Potter’s eyes follow the duelling ribbons of colour in his core. He thinks to take a few notes for their project, but quickly finds that he doesn’t know what to say. Potter’s core is neutral, shockingly enough, but the chaos of alternating colours, vines growing together, trying to strangle one another all the while, it’s jarring. 

When he looks back up, the lights are flickering out on the wall but Potter is still blankly staring at it, and his eyes are wet. 

Draco’s on his feet without thinking, and then he’s beside the wall, looking down slightly to meet Potter’s eyes (and now so isn’t the time to feel satisfaction in being taller than Potter, but it’s there anyway). 

There’s recognition in those green eyes, Potter knows who he’s talking to as he speaks, “I knew what she’d done for me, I knew she was never really gone, but to _see_ how she…”

“She was fighting for your soul all along.” Draco murmurs, wondering if even his own mother had loved him that much. 

“She did,” Potter answers, and it’s only then that Draco realizes he’s spoken his ruminations aloud. “She’d have burned everything to the ground for you.” 

Draco knows he’s right. He would even without the bright green eyes burning earnestly into his own, and he feels dizzy from it, the truth of the words, the searing brightness of Potter’s very presence, and he puts a steadying hand on Potter’s bicep. 

Those eyes flicker down to Draco’s pale hand and back up to his face, and they’re both leaning into each other, and just when Draco thinks that maybe they’ll-

A soft chime rings out from the clock on the wall and Potter jumps, eyes widening frantically as he realizes that it’s just turned six in the evening. “I have to go,” he gasps, stepping away and breaking the strange spell they’d both fallen under. “Fuck, I’m late. I’m sorry, we’ll finish…” he gestures to the notes and essays spread across Draco’s table, “later.”

And with that he’s grabbed his bag and run out the door, leaving a very confused Draco behind to obsess over what’s just happened. 

* * *

  
Monday brings yet another Advanced Magical Interactions class and for the first time, Draco arrives before Potter. In fact, Potter only walks in a moment before Marsh does, giving Draco only a moment to watch him cast his _lingua_ before the lecture begins. 

It’s less interesting today, they’re talking about astrology, its interactions with the earth, and the way divination was born from the strange relationship between the two. Draco listens halfheartedly, taking minimal notes, as his focus rests almost solely on the man beside him. 

They’d nearly kissed. Draco was certain of that. And maybe....maybe after spending weeks together, maybe after seeing into his soul and realizing that Potter isn’t the person Draco thought he was.... _maybe_ he’s interested in that. He’s not saying he _wants_ it, necessarily...but he’s intrigued. And annoyed that Potter and his shifty 5:30 obligations had stopped whatever _might have_ happened from happening. 

He’s decided that it’s part of his new leaf not to let this pass without comment. He’s going to talk to Potter about what happened. Or he’s going to try to, because as soon as Marsh dismisses class, Potter is out the door and headed down the hall. It’s only just gone 11 in the morning, so Draco knows it isn’t time for his mysterious evening plans yet, and he hastens after Potter, grabbing him by the elbow and pulling him into an alcove off the hallway where a very cubic loveseat sits next to what looks like a bright yellow ficus. 

Potter’s eyes are wide and alarmed, and only soften slightly when he realizes it’s Draco stopping him. He flushes minutely and a very evil voice in the back of Draco’s head points out that his embarrassment is actually lovely. “What, Malfoy? We don’t meet again until Saturday.” He tries and fails for a casual tone, and Draco can’t help pinning him with a look that shows he’s not falling for it. 

“I’d like to talk about what just happened _this_ Saturday.”

Harry stares at him like a doe in wandlight and Draco realizes that yes, it’s _Harry_ looking at him with those wide eyes, Harry, his university classmate, Harry, who he grudgingly enjoys spending time with, Harry, who isn’t at all the person Draco made him out to be. 

“I uh- I know I left before we could finish the notes we needed but we can make up the ti-”

“The _notes?!_ You think I've stormed after you like a madman over the _notes?_ ” Draco’s near seething at this point, even though a part of him is infuriatingly fond at the way raven hair falls into Harry’s eyes. When did he become such a pansy for Potter? 

Slowly and then all at once, moron, says that voice in his brain. 

Harry tilts his head, and he must see something in Draco’s face because the corner of his mouth turns up in the tiniest smile and he tentatively steps forward, “You’re not upset about the notes?” he asks, almost teasingly, and Draco shakes his head and swallows thickly because now Potter is _right there_ and he doesn’t know exactly what to do with that. 

He’s saved, of course, by Potter reaching out across the minimal space between them and tilting Draco’s head down by his jaw, then kissing him, a quick press of lips against lips. It’s over in a second, but Draco’s hand has reached out of its own accord and dug it’s fingers into the soft fabric of Harry’s shirt to pull him closer. The second time it’s not so quick, it’s a slow slide of fragile skin, and Harry’s lips are chapped and Draco’s catch against them and he doesn’t care, he doesn’t care at all because he’s on _fire_. 

And then it’s over and Harry is smiling sheepishly at him, “I’ve really got to go, I have another class.” 

He doesn’t leave, though Draco can sense the underlying urgency in his voice. “Then I’ll see you Saturday?”

Harry looks at him for a moment, “I finish class at 1 on Thursday.”

“I’ll see you Thursday. The beach.” 

“The beach.”

And then he’s gone.   
  


* * *

Their second day at the beach doesn’t involve any notes at all. Draco’s brought his school bag, but he’s pleased to see that Potter hasn’t. Instead he’s empty-handed, in navy swim trunks, shirtless, with that same ridiculous hat on. His skin is radiant in the sunlight, and Draco is careful not to let that slip out loud.

He’s back in his emerald green swim shorts and is happily admiring the way his own skin has tanned from afternoons out on this very beach while Potter spreads his towel out over the sand, nearly touching Draco’s. 

They’re both quiet for a few moments, listening to the waves roll in and the soothing drone of the surf. It’s only when Draco begins to wonder if this was a mistake that Potter speaks. 

He’s laying on his back, hands folded together behind his head and eyes presumably studying the fluffy clouds above them, “So, a potions mastery, then?” 

Draco has to chuckle at how mundane it is, but he nods, even though Potter isn’t looking. “The only subject I ever really loved in school. I thought I’d have trouble figuring out what to do after...everything, since ‘the family business’ wasn’t much of an option anymore, but I didn’t.” Harry is looking at him now, his face interested, and Draco goes on, “It was McGonagall, surprisingly enough, that approached me a month after my trial. She helped me get the NEWT and suggested some programs, this one included.”

Harry smiles, bright and white and a little too much, “That shifty old bat!” He says, laughing and clearly fonder than the words would lead one to believe. “She did the same to me,” he admits, “Told me she always thought I could be successful in school, given a proper opportunity.” He shakes his head, “I wonder how many of our year she tracked down and pulled strings for.”

Draco raises an eyebrow, “Strings?” 

“Well....I’m not saying I _don’t_ have my NEWTs...I’m just saying...I maybe _shouldn’t_ have my NEWTs.” 

Draco scoffs, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Potter looks abashed at that, looking away from Draco and back up at the sky. “I don’t like to use my influence to get things for myself...but she convinced whoever needed convincing to let me sit the exams…and...I don’t know anything for sure, but they seemed a bit easier than they should have been.”

“Harry Potter, you’re a dirty rotten cheater!” Draco cries, reaching out to shove his shoulder. 

“Oi, it’s not like I don’t feel bad about it!”

“Not bad enough to demand a retest.”

Potter seems to think about that for a moment and then grins, “No, not bad enough for that. They were still nastily exhausting, after all. And I’m not using them to get a job, just to get into school, so I can go do more school, and _then_ have a job.”

Draco sits up and turns towards Harry, who follows suit, “I get to finally know, then? What is the big plan for Harry Potter after uni? Wait, what are you even studying, first of all?

Harry snorts, “I don’t know how big the plan is, but it’s first a mastery in magical theory, then I’ve got an apprenticeship lined up with a wandmaker in Oslo….then my own shop, I guess.”

“Wandmaking? Really?” Draco weighs that information against what he’s learned about Harry this year, and begins to nod thoughtfully, the interest in earth magic, the enthusiasm about wands being a conduit, it makes sense. “I can see that, actually. Especially with the whole elder wand thing...you’ll be a hit, won’t be able to keep a wand on your shelves.”

“I destroyed the elder wand.” The words are simple and thoughtful and Draco can’t help gaping at them.

“You _what?_ ” He’d noticed, of course, that Potter wasn’t using the wand he’d disarmed from the Dark Lord, but he just thought that was part of laying low. The elder wand drew attention. 

Harry just shrugs, “I used it to fix my original wand and snapped it in half. It’s too much power, it shouldn’t exist.” He draws a few random shapes in the sand and then looks back up at Draco, “Tell me about your plans.” 

It’s an obvious play at changing the subject, but Draco concedes, shrugging but making a mental note to come back to this topic eventually. “The potions mastery is most of the plan. I guess afterward I’ll...open an apothecary, do some research in my free time...make reparations.” He trails off quietly, he hadn’t meant to say that last part, but he finds that maybe a part of him did. He wants Harry to know that he doesn’t feel finished with making up for his past. 

“You’ll be very good at that,” comes Potter’s honest reply, and it’s like a breath of fresh air. Acceptance that yes, he has things to make up for, and yes, he’s perfectly capable of doing it. 

Harry has a way of making him feel like the world isn’t quite as finished with him as Draco would like to think. 

They sit in a peaceful moment of quiet, and then Potter is moving, getting to his feet and tossing that bloody hat down on his towel, “Come on then, I didn’t get to go swimming the last time.” He reaches a hand out to Draco, who takes it and allows himself to be pulled to his feet and into the cool clear water. 

And if they keep finding reasons to touch one other, with hands and salty lips and tongues...well, neither of them are opposed.   
  


* * *

The following Saturday brings the finishing touches on their project. They’ve written the required short essays on each subtype of magic, the longer essays on light and dark, and the exploration of each of their magical cores, and what they were able to determine about them from the projections they accessed. 

Draco can feel Harry watching him as he reads through the last few paragraphs that Harry wrote about Draco’s core. It’s mostly academic, with a hint of flattery, which is probably unnecessary for the assignment, but Draco can’t bring himself to complain. They’d agreed to each cover the write-up of the other’s core, allowing a less biased assessment, but these words in Harry’s cramped scrawl are more biased than anticipated

Letting it slide, Draco sets the paper aside and looks up to where Harry is perched on the edge of his bed and smiles, “I think we’ve finished.” 

“Have we?” Harry asks excitedly, “not that I’m relieved that it’s over but that we don’t have to _write_ anymore,” he adds hastily, and Draco laughs.

“We don’t have to write anymore,” he confirms, departing the dining table to cross the room and stand before Harry, whose knees easily drift apart to make room for him. “Until the next project, that is.”

An exaggerated look of mourning crosses Harry’s face and he pulls Draco in by the shirt, erasing the space between them and trailing light kisses across Draco’s jaw to his mouth, “No more writing,” he murmurs against Draco’s lips.

A thrill runs through him and Draco nods, dropping one hand to the flat of Harry’s lower back while the other winds through his hair, “No more writing.” He kisses Harry solidly on the mouth, revelling in the rough slide of ever-chapped lips against his and glances at the clock, which shows only three pm. “And we have a lot of time to kill,” he adds suggestively, nipping at Harry’s ear and getting a low whine in response. 

“I have an idea for that,” Harry says laughingly, hands already pulling the carefully tucked shirt from Draco’s trousers, even as he kisses down his neck and finds a tender place to suck on just over Draco’s collarbone. 

Draco finds that he very much likes this idea, and follows Potter’s lead, pushing the hem of his shirt up to his armpits, hands wandering over planes of solid abs and pectorals and salivating with his desire to put his mouth on them. 

Meanwhile, Harry’s managed to get Draco’s shirt unbuttoned and is pushing it off his shoulders, stopping to stare at Draco’s chest, flawless and lightly tanned from the sun. Draco takes his moment of inaction to tug Harry’s shirt up over his head, but stops when he sees the sadness creeping in on Harry’s face. “Don’t, please…”

“I thought it would scar...all this time, but that first day at the beach I saw…” Harry looks up at him and Draco tries to ignore the arousal in his groin and give this moment, well, a moment. 

“I’ve healed,” he says meaningfully, and Harry’s eyes find his and that green is bright as ever.

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah. There, at least.” 

“Okay.” They’re both nodding as they come back together and Harry kisses him softly, and sweetly, and then they’re shirtless and pressed together and there’s nothing sweet about it when Draco feels Harry’s tongue against his lips and the bulge of Harry’s cock in his jeans pressing into Draco’s thigh. It’s too much in the moment and not at all enough in the big picture. 

Draco groans into Harry’s mouth, opening up to his tongue and their kiss turns fast and frantic, and all he can think is more, more, as he drags his mouth down Harry’s neck and finally gets his lips on that chest, dropping to his knees and kissing a path down to toned abs, the muscles fluttering against his lips as Draco’s hands follow suit and fiddle with the buckle of his belt, the button on his jeans… He thinks he hears a soft whimper as he finally pulls the jeans away, tugging them down tan thighs and leaving Harry in only his white cotton boxers. 

Having never sucked cock before, Draco finds himself shocked by how desperately he wants to strip that last bit of fabric away and see what Harry tastes like there, but rough hands in his hair are pulling him back up, and claiming his mouth in a desperate kiss, even as Harry slips one hand down to cup Draco through his trousers, a gentle squeeze and then a pump, and another, and a second hand joins to wrestle open the buttons of his trousers, four of the them in a line that slowly reveal the way Draco’s cock is straining against his black briefs. 

Then his trousers are gone and it's them both in their underwear, pressed together against the side of Draco’s bed, and Draco finds that he wants Harry right here, like this, so he dips a hand beneath the waistband of his boxers and pulls out his cock, tugging the offending garment down to his thighs at the same time. And then he’s holding Harry Potter’s dick in his hand, and as strange as that thought is, his own jumps a little in his briefs at the knowledge. 

Harry’s cock is dark and thick and achingly hard and every little slide of flesh draws a tiny sigh from Harry’s lips. With a quick wandless charm, Draco conjures up a spot of lube and drags it over the length of Harry’s cock. The answering moan is nearly enough to send Draco over the edge, and his own hips buck against Harry’s thigh, seemingly prompting him to follow suit, because a moment later he has Draco’s cock in hand and is setting a torturously slow pace that Draco can’t help but follow. 

He lets his eyes trail back up to Harry’s, wanting to see the proof of just how this affects him on his face, and he finds that Harry’s already looking at him. They meet each other’s eyes and Harry grins and leans in to kiss him, hot and open mouthed, as he speeds up his hand. 

Draco’s toes would curl were they not firmly planted on the floor, keeping him tenuously upright as Harry Potter jerks him off. 

He keeps pace with Harry, twisting his hand this way and that, just how he does when he’s alone - and it’s appreciated if the way Harry’s hand stutters and a moan rumbles in his chest is anything to go by. All too soon, Draco is close, their kisses turn into panting against one another’s mouths, and Harry shifts them, his free hand leaving crescent moon marks from his fingernails in the skin of Draco’s bicep as it trails down to pull Draco’s hips closer, to align their cocks and lace their fingers and stroke both of them together. 

The slide of his cock against Harry’s is what does it for Draco, and a moment later, he’s spilling his climax in bursts over Harry’s stomach and both of their cocks. Harry follows soon after, the slide of Draco’s release helping him along. 

They stand there for a long moment, foreheads pressed together and hands interlocked and covered with their mess, simply sharing air. 

“I’d be okay with more writing if it always ended like this.” 

Draco laughs, his head falling back and then dropping to Harry’s shoulder, “hmm, I think we could probably arrange that. Although….”

He trails off and he can feel Harry looking at him with curiosity. A jab in the stomach from Harry prompts him along, “We did write _ten_ essays for this project, I don’t know if we’re done here.” 

He’s rewarded with a bark of laughter and a suggestive look, “Oh, we’re nowhere near done.”

So they continue.

Draco loses count, though he’s sure they don’t quite make it to ten - even with magic helping them along - before they fall asleep, pressed together in the dorm bed that is clearly meant for just one person. 

The next thing he knows, he’s jolted awake by Harry, who’s swearing under his breath, and frantically gathering his clothes. It’s the middle of the night, judging by the darkness outside, and it takes Draco’s brain a few moments to catch up - Harry was supposed to leave at 5:30, he _always_ leaves at 5:30, and Draco stopped asking why. Now he’s curious again as Harry, in a flurry of jeans and socks and finished essays, sees himself out of Draco’s room without even a word of goodbye, despite the way Draco calls out his name.

And Draco is left alone with a sense of unease, trying not to wonder if he’s made a mistake, or if Harry thinks so.

* * *

By the time Monday arrives again, Draco has had the time to decide that he’ll pretend nothing happened at all. It’s not a full class anyway, they’re just turning their projects in and then they’re free to go, a lucky morning off as a reward for the effort they’ve put into their work for the first half of the term. 

He uses Harry’s- _Potter’s_ strategy against him and arrives just a moment before Marsh does, his half of the project in his grasp. He listens to Marsh congratulate them, and give them a quick runthrough of her grading process before presenting a box in which they are to place their finished projects. He turns to Potter only long enough to take the other half of their papers, then orders them as he walks up to Marsh’s desk. He thanks her politely, and proceeds out the door, without even glancing back to the desk he’s shared with Potter all term. Maybe he’ll switch it up and make a new acquaintance when they resume next week. 

Of course, if he can mimic Potter, Potter can mimic him, and he only just makes it out of the building before he’s being pulled gently off the sidewalk and he spins around to find Potter’s face looking wounded. 

“What do you want?” he snaps, ready to turn and keep walking, but Potter’s hand is still on his arm. 

“Are you mad that I left? I didn’t want to leave, I didn’t, really. I had to go I had an-”

“An obligation, yeah, I know, you always do, don’t you? Makes it pretty convenient when you need an excuse to leave.” 

These words, of course, only cut Potter deeper, and the wounded look grows, “I’m not making excuses, Draco!” And when did Potter start calling him by his first name? “I’m not trying to avoid being with you, the other night was…” he sighs heavily, “It was amazing, and I wanted to wake up with you, I just hadn’t planned...I had to go.” 

Draco only has silence to give to that, because it’s an answer that answers nothing. 

He doesn’t know if it hurts more that Harry has somewhere else more important to be, or that he doesn’t seem interested in _telling_ Draco just what is so important. 

“Where? Where did you have to go that was important enough to leave me alone after that? To go without a word?” It's soft and quiet, and maybe Draco isn’t ready to be so vulnerable in this and maybe he doesn’t have the right to ask, not yet, but he does anyway, because he needs to know. 

Harry deflates, and Draco’s sure he’s going to walk away, but he doesn’t, he puts his arm out for Draco to take, and an instant later, they’re apparating. 

The unyielding squeeze of apparition gives way to a quiet beachside cottage, laundry on the line outside, and soft music from a wireless streaming out of what must be the kitchen window. 

Confused, Draco looks to Harry, who gives him a tentative soft smile, and opens the gate to walk up the path. 

The inside of the cottage is an assault of cozy domesticity, the lingering smell of breakfast from the kitchen, the clatter of self-washing dishes over the music in the kitchen, and it takes a few moments for Draco to notice the signs, toy blocks spread about the living room rug, tiny little rain boots stuck by the door, a high-chair set at one end of the kitchen table. 

He’s opening his mouth to ask what exactly is going on when he realizes that Harry’s gone off somewhere in the house. It’s only a short moment before he wanders back in, a little boy, maybe two at the oldest, on his hip, with a toothy smile and a riot of lime green hair. And Draco feels inexplicably _drawn_ to him. 

He walks forward without thinking and reaches his arms out, and maybe he should be surprised when Harry immediately hands the child over, but he isn’t, because he knows in his soul that this little boy is his family. It feels like something bigger than him, big enough to fill the whole room.

Draco cradles the little boy in his arms, that warm draw only growing as tiny fingers close in a fist around the fabric at his shoulder. He hardly notices the kindly older woman that waves cheerfully to Harry and sees herself out.

“Harry what’s going on?” He breathes after a moment of taking in the genuine comfort of holding this child in his arms, hardly able to tear his eyes away from the cheerfully babbling baby to look at Harry.

“This is Teddy Lupin, my godson...and your cousin.” The answer is level, careful, but he smiles fondly as he runs his fingers through Teddy’s vibrant locks. 

“Your...oh.” Draco looks between them, and the dark circles under Harry’s eyes make sense now. “You’re doing this on your own?”

“I’m all he’s got. He lives here with me, and his caretaker watches him while I’m in classes. She usually leaves at 6.” There’s careful meaning in the last part, and Draco suddenly feels like a monster. 

“You’ve been leaving to get home to...all this,” He says morosely, ready to start apologizing as best he knows how for being so pushy, but the warmth in Harry’s eyes as he looks at the two of them makes him feel already forgiven. The tension in his chest settles the slightest bit but still, “Harry, How did I _know?_ I saw him and I just...I knew he was my family. I’ve never felt anything like that before.” 

Harry gasps softly, his eyes going a little distant, ”I think I might have an idea,” He strides over to a bookshelf on the wall and pulls out an old-looking tome, “I found this after we saw our cores...I wanted to know more about that magic, not just love but, you know, family.” 

Draco raises an eyebrow, nodding for him to continue, and not even trying to ignore the flutter of joy as Teddy wraps his hand around one of Draco’s fingers. 

“It’s not what I was looking for, really, but there’s a kind of family magic that grows in the oldest of bloodlines…” he trails off as his eyes dance across a page of the book then shiftback up at Draco and Teddy. “The more witches and wizards in a family, the more powerful the familial bond. You’ve got blood from one of the largest magical families on record, Teddy does too.”

Draco scoffs. “The noble and most ancient house of Black…”

Harry nods thoughtfully, “Though that doesn’t really explain why you feel it so strongly,” he glances back at the book page, “There’s only the two of you left.” 

“But magic never goes away. When we die it goes back to the earth, which means…”

“Your bond is as strong as if the whole Black family was still alive,” Harry breathes softly.

“Thankfully, they’re not,” Draco stage whispers cheerfully to Teddy, who grins and babbles some nonsense in response.

There’s the slightest sadness in the smile on Harry’s face as he watches them, “I’ll never feel anything like that for someone. The Dursley’s are muggles, so they don’t carry my mother’s family bond, and my father’s family is gone. I’m it.” 

Draco offers him a thoughtful look and glances between him and Teddy, then meaningfully at the home around them, because it’s definitely more of a _home_ than anywhere Draco has ever been. “I think you’ve proven well enough that family doesn’t have to share blood to be, well, family.” He bounces Teddy on his hip and wins a giggle for his efforts, “And I might be his favourite now, but you’re not missing out on much,” he adds with a grin, moving to settle on the floor with Teddy and his toys.

“And so the noble and most ancient house of Black begins a new chapter,” Harry says fondly, moving to join them on the rug.

“Yes, well, everything old is new again.”

**Author's Note:**

> The missing tags for those of you who would like them are: Single Dad Harry, “Working” Dad Harry, Teddy Lupin, bloodline magic
> 
> ☀️ This fic is part of the GWB summer Vibes gift exchange. If you'd like to spread the love, [ consider reblogging the tumblr reveal post!](https://triggerlil.tumblr.com/post/626822137802637312)


End file.
